


residue

by snivellus (queervulcan)



Category: Alternate Universe - Crossover - Fandom, Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Fusions, M/M, Suicide mentions, Trans Character, Trans Connor, Trans Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 01:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15207563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queervulcan/pseuds/snivellus
Summary: we are human





	residue

Sometimes, Hank still wakes up screaming. Gems don’t _need_ sleep, not necessarily, but he has been living as a human for so long that sometimes- sometimes he just _forgets_.

Most days he doesn’t remember his gem, it’s nearly blended in with his carefully artificially dyed skin. Sometimes it even aches in remembrance.

Hank knows he is living on borrowed time, but he doesn’t much like to think on that. One day, they will discover what he is, and his years in a farce will be over. No more careful alteration appointments, no more midnight studying of the human anatomy.

Today is no different- he wakes up, puts on clothes that others call eccentric and he just smiles at them, discreetly clenching his hands to prevent himself from patting at his gem spot.

When he comes to the office, there are less Jaspers and Peridots than he remembers, standing ready at attention along the walls.

It sickens him, in a way, to see people- his people- being treated like stock. But again, he has been living as human for _so long_.

There is a Peridot sitting at his desk- what looks like a deviant. They are very obviously _not_ a girl, and that is enough to spike Hank’s interest. When they turn to look at him, his eyes are what capture his attention and keep it. They are brown, a shade he has never seen in Peridot’s, and so full of life it has his gem pulsing in overtime.

He forces himself to keep moving, to pretend to remain unaffected and callous like other humans are.

He pushes the gem off his desk, pretending he doesn’t see the frown, and starts to click away at his laptop.

The gem is speaking, and he registers that his name is Connor, which supports his hypothesis that, yes, this gem was just as corrupt as he. Which makes him wonder, just what about Connor is so good that they would keep him instead of shattering him.

When he tells him that they are now partners, he thinks _oh shit_ to himself and hates that he is still able to read people as well he was before he left Homeworld.

* * *

The months pass more or less quietly. Connor gets poofed, repeatedly, and each time brings increasingly desperate dreams, ones which now double feature his gem mentee- his _son_ \- and Connor.

He can’t save either of them, but oh god how he _tries_.

* * *

It was an accident, he repeatedly tells himself. He couldn’t have known that a case was going to come. If he did, he wouldn’t have been so careless about his clothes.

The gun and alcohol, however, he believes would still be there. They are always there.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, but he pretends. He is an expert at pretending.

He’s aware of strong hands under his armpits, of Sumo barking up a storm, and then he is screaming and flailing, ice cold water shocking him out of his funk.

He screams at Connor, yelling all sorts of horrible things at him, until he is flushed with rage and burned out. Only then, does he realize where Connor is looking.

His gem is on full display, peeking out from where it hangs over his heart, and it shines under his translucent, beaten shirt.

He pushes Connor away, telling him to leave him be, until he is crawling to the toilet in anxiety and-

-the words _corrupt_ and _failure_ and _shatter her_ ring in his ears-

-and there are hands on his back, pulling his hair away from his head and into a bun, and Hank falls apart under Connor’s steady, warm hands.

* * *

It was an accident, and not his fault, but he can still feel his child’s shards in his hands.

The Jasper hadn’t even blinked, had kept going on with her day, and that had rankled him more than anything.

It was so clean, so well executed and hidden, that Hank suspects there was a Sapphire involvement.

There was no funeral, no condolences, and the baby Howlite had been replaced immediately with a newer one, but it _wasn’t_ the same.

He thinks it may have been around then that his programming started malfunctioning, when he became less of a comfort and more a hindrance, until one day they decided to shatter him as well.

* * *

He tells him about his son on a cold fall day, leaves rotting at their feet and pumpkins sitting between their knees.

Connor doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him with pity or revulsion.

He keeps carving, nodding here and there, until Hank is out of words to say.

Hank watches him for a while, waiting for _something_ , _anything_ , and it doesn’t come.

* * *

It’s been nearly a full year, and Hank loves the snow that covers every surface. 

As a Howlite, he loves how his natural skin color blends in with the sky, loves how his gem _bursts_ with life under his coat.

He is sitting outside, Connor at his side, looking up at the night sky and making up silly stories for the constellations.

As a Howlite, he was made to soothe the Diamonds and higher ups from their anxieties, their worries, to be a therapist and soundboard for them. Much like a Pearl, but more focusing on the emotional than the physical.

As a Howlite, he learned to blend in. As a human, he learned to hide.

Now is no different.

* * *

It’s a few days later when things go to shit.

Hank gets dragged into a fight at Cyberlife, one he most _definitely_ didn’t ask for, and he’s almost afraid his gem will be on display.

It isn’t, but old habits die hard.

Suddenly, he is thrown into a crossfire with Connor, trying to activate and free other fighter gems, when a Peridot identical to his Connor knocks him over, pushing a gun to his temple.

Hank goes ice cold, his gem feeling like it may crack in half.

Connor tries to negotiate, tries to placate, but they have been partners long enough that when he makes desperate eye contact, it only takes a few side eyes and slight hand movements for Connor to understand-

-and suddenly Hank has the gun, the barrel almost as cold as him, and he is presented with a struggle.

Does he shoot the fake Connor, or the real one, when they are identical in everything, including their gem placement.

“What is my son’s name?”

The answer comes from both nearly at the same time, and Hank curses at the electronic trail he has left over the years.

He points the gun at the Connor on the right, then the left, and decides to trust his instinct.

He gestures the gun at the left Connor, telling him to walk closer, and he does slowly, palms facing outwards.

Hank doesn’t let the gun go, but he lets his free hand trace over Connor’s face, letting himself memorize the features he came to unwillingly love over time. They are the same he remembers, down to the green freckles he spent hours fantasizing over.

But it’s his _eyes_ , so human and wide and trusting, that convince him. Hank kisses Connor’s forehead, keeping his eyes wide open, hand sliding over Connor’s gem at his temple, and before he knows it he is taller than he remembers.

He has more limbs, too, and he is confused for a moment before he realizes- _holy shit, they just fucking fused_.

The joy in his- their- body is not his, just as the sudden drowning fear is not Connor’s.

Instead of pushing him away in disgust or a miscommunication, Connor soothes him, whispers encouragement in their ears, and Hank blinks his eyes to clear them of the heavy moisture.

If this is what fusion feels like, he never wants to leave it.

The other Connor, the fake one, is taking a half step away from them, clear revulsion and shock on the features Hank so loves.

Before he is aware of it, Connor takes over and pulls the trigger, and they are safe once again.

_We should defuse._

Hank is obstinate, and digs his heels in.

Connor laughs, low and heady, and complies.

* * *

The revolution is over almost as soon as it began, and already Hank can see changes being made.

He’s happy, he is, but mostly he feels like he is itching out of his skin. He wants to reveal what he is, but he also wants to run somewhere far, far away where nobody knows him.

It is Connor who suggests they move, and Hank who voices his pleas for a quiet area, somewhere like Iceland.

Surprisingly, Connor has no qualms.

They are gone within the week, office tidy for the first time in Hank’s career and he can’t help but think: _this is it_.

With Connor at his side, smiling and cooing over pictures of Sumo since the real one is on another plane, he can’t help but feel more whole than he has since his birth. 

* * *

Iceland is quiet, and Hank doesn’t bother hiding his gem, pearly grey shining out past tank tops, relishing the cold that makes his skin tingle.

The artificial dye has since faded, his natural grey skin back on display since _years_ ago.

Here, in Iceland, the sky is nearly the same color as he, but he doesn’t feel like he is hiding anymore.

* * *

It doesn’t get better, automatically. Sometimes he still feels lost and scared, sometimes Connor still feels like he has to subvert to his authority, but fusing helps like nothing ever has before.

There, they are equal, and whole in ways they never imagined.

They find out their fusion name is Variscite, and it is almost as beautiful as his son. He is so enamored with their fusion, he’s drawn to taking photos when he can, cataloguing every skin tone change, every dimple and scar, comparing it to foliage he finds on the ground outside their little home.

They run over the mountains together, extra arms pushing against the current, legs strong and straining. The gem over their eyes clouds their vision, sometimes, but the gem at the hollow of their throat helps them remember what they are running from- running _for_.

They don’t spend every day fused, but when they do, Hank feels _alive_.


End file.
